


From Eden

by imnotashadowclone



Category: Agents of S.H.I.E.L.D. (TV)
Genre: F/M, FitzSimmons - Freeform, Maybe cameos from other team and Avengers, Some may have injury and truama, some AU, some may be angst
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2015-07-20
Updated: 2015-07-26
Packaged: 2018-04-10 05:13:21
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 2
Words: 1,569
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4378592
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/imnotashadowclone/pseuds/imnotashadowclone
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>The universes that Leo Fitz and Jemma Simmons meet in</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Tragic

_Babe,_

_There’s something tragic about you,_

_Something so magic about you,_

_Don’t you agree?_

The air is filled with mournful wailing of sirens.

The white walls are strange in the darkness; painted with dancing shadows and flashing lights.

(Red then blue, then red again)

But that’s not the only thing that catches his eye, no, the other is her.

She was naturally pale, but she almost seems to glow in the lights. She’s small, but in the depths of the shadows, she almost seems doll-like. (Fragile like a pretty china figurine)

She’s lying on the wretched, threadbare green sofa, hands encompassed in the sleeves of an ivory sweater folded neatly under her head, an oddly childish gesture, knees clad in black tights bent slightly to accommodate her whole frame in the worn cushions. Her hair gleams, copper and bronze shimmering in the strands. Her lips are pulled into a soft smile, just a small tug of the corners of her lips, but it makes her look almost mythical in the shifting twilight.

Her eyes are shut, delicate eyelashes hazel against her skin. In the dancing lights, it almost seems like she would simply flutter them open.

Except she wouldn’t, not anymore at least.

A small cough beside him alert’s him that he had stared for long enough.

_“Well Doctor? Cause of death?”_

He clears his throat, tearing his eyes from the sleeping girl, holding up instead the syringe and empty vial he found beside her.  

_“She, uh… She ODed. Time of death, about… two or three hours ago.”_

And that is all.


	2. Lonesome

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The first emotion you feel along with your destined other, would be the dominant emotion you would feel till you finally met them.  
> Jemma Simmons is tired of being sad all the time.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This is a soul mate AU (couldn't resist)  
> Some amount of sadness, so beware.  
> Attempted suicide.

 

_Babe,_

_There’s something lonesome about you,_

_Something so wholesome about you,_

_Get closer to me._

She stands absolutely still, allowing the cool air to kiss her skin.

Her eyes are shut, she didn’t feel like opening them anytime soon, preferring to simply _feel_ instead of see.

Her arms are crossed loosely around herself, in a simple attempt to clutch a plain black canvas bag to her chest.

A breeze wafts through and she can feel her short hair fly, touching her nose, ears, face, with feather soft touches.

But the thing that consumes her is her sadness.

Sadness that expands, bigger and bigger inside her, till she’s sure it’s the only thing she has.

In this world, the first emotion you feel along with your destined other, would be the dominant emotion you would feel till you finally met them. She could remember the exact moment the sadness began; she was six and her beloved retriever had died, leaving her feeling empty. Empty like there was a hole in her chest, one that would never be filled.

She cried for a week, reducing from her usual bright self, to a shadow of Jemma, a person who was never actually there.

Her parents had assumed, of course, that she was simply mourning the death of one of the most beloved and closest companion she had ever had as a six year old, but then the week, turned into a month, turned into a year, turned into two, and then they realized that she would not get any better.

Then they sat her down, nervous smiles and suppressed tears on her mother’s part, and explained the fact that sadness would be the dominant emotion she could perceive. When she asked the inevitable ‘why’, they told her it was her soul mate’s fault. He or she had felt the same sadness simultaneously. And meeting him or her would be the only way to reverse it.

She had asked to be excused, and then she went up to her room and burrowed into her bed, to contemplate and digest everything she had heard.

Out there somewhere was someone else left with this empty, growing sadness, and it was partially her fault.

Her being sad about Rex was understandable, she wondered if this mysterious soul mate had a just as valid reason for his (or her) sadness. Then she felt guilty; of course it must have been, it’s hard to feel this depth of sadness for nothing.

(But did they feel this cold chill all over themselves as well?)

 And so, she lived her entire life, all eighteen years after this odd acquisition, with the pressing sadness.

She found that she could be happy and scared, confused and angry, just that the feelings never lasted.

She relished those moments of _freedom_ from the sadness.

There had been some men in her life, a boyfriend or two, once she moved to America, but it never lasted, how could it? She would be sad till she found her soul mate, whom none of them were.

Once she turned twelve it occurred to her, that it was very possible that she would never find this soul mate. The thought was surprisingly devastating. She told no one, but after that the cold feeling intensified.

She met others; Daisy (“Call me Skye. My dad is the only one who still likes the name”) Johnson, who was deliriously happy all the time, Grant ‘training to be a specialist’ Ward who was angry all the time (he glared at her till she was uncomfortable, then snarled, “Nice to meet you, Jemma.”) and Sam ‘the Falcon’ Wilson, who would act terribly disgusted at the strangest things (“Are you _sure_ you want to put that mug down _there_ , _God_!”).

There were some who had found their significant other; Pepper Potts, a very pleasant woman who lived down the street and her millionaire husband, Tony Stark (they had both been frustrated since they were four. “It was the best sex _ever_ ”) and Natasha Romanoff, a specialist had found her soul mate in her now partner, Clint Barton (they had both been indifferent to everything since she was thirteen and he was fifteen. “And _that_ was the best sex ever”).

But she couldn’t stand it sometimes.

She had to bite her lips hard, and curl her arms around herself, and remember all those better moments till the heavy feeling receded.

And now she’s here, at a subway terminal.

It’s late (she doesn’t know the actual time and the terminal clock is broken) and there is no one else on the platform.

She can almost _see_ the sadness shift within her.

She can’t. Not anymore. She can’t live with this sadness.

She sheds the coat she had hastily thrown on and folds it neatly before placing it next to a pillar. Then her shoes find themselves placed beside the fabric.

Her hands are shaking as she places the bag on top of the pile.

She stumbles slightly as she makes her way to the edge, her feet numb on the linoleum, teeth chattering.

She never once raises her eyes past her white toes till she reaches the chasm.

There’s a train coming, she can tell by the growing vibrations running through the empty terminal.

The vibrations intensify, and she feels her tongue coat with a coppery taste.

The sadness _lurches_ inside her, like its figuring out that she was going to end it once and for all, and she takes a deep breath in, arms loosening from their tight embrace around her torso, letting them fall on lifelessly at her side.

She closes her eyes.

And leans forward.

But only feels wind whipping at her face as the train rushes by.

And a strong pair of arms wrapping around her waist and stomach, pinning her arms to her sides, holding her back.

Her eyes snap open, and she’s ready to bawl, to wail, to thrash in the vice like grip till she could break free. Then one of the hands brush her forearm, and the world falls away.

For one moment its absolute silence.

Then its relief, then joy, then fear, then shame, then _everything_ at once.  She’s crying, tears streaming down her face, but it’s from pure shock, pure bliss, to finally, _finally_ be free.

It hits her then that this person holding her, they are the _one_. Her _soul_ _mate_.

Her one and only in the wide, wide, expanding universe.

She turns clumsily in the tight embrace to see the face of the most important person in the world for her.

He is beautiful.

In the harsh, generic light, his outline seems to glow. His face seems to be illuminated, high cheekbones, lips that are parted in what seemed to be both surprize and awe and his hair glows bronze.

But it’s his eyes that capture her.

Blue like the sky, blue like the ocean, blue like nothing ever was, and filled with so much _awe_ at her, like they are seeing the world for the first time, like they are quenching a thirst that was unquenchable, by looking at _her_.

He swallows, brilliant eyes never once leaving her.

She reaches up to touch his hair, letting it fall to his cheek, and he tilts his head ever so slightly to fit into her palm.

It is still cold, but somehow, it just isn’t as cold in his arms (now holding onto her waist loosely).

She feels the inexplicable urge to touch his lips, to trace his skin, to pull him close, to kiss him, but she settles with losing herself in his eyes.

He breathes out, a low exhale, and she feels oddly at peace, like everything finally has fallen into place.

“Please.”

His Scottish brogue takes her by surprize. She waits for him to continue.

“Don’t jump.”

And she doesn’t.  

 


End file.
